THE DEVIL AND AGENT PENDRELL (1/2) author: Beagle (feedback to: astrea@sprint.ca) Rating: PG Summary: The Doof is Out There. Perhaps neither the life nor the death of Agent Pendrell were quite what they seemed. Spoilers: Max/Tempest Fugit Disclaimer:Standard fanfic disclaimers apply. Keywords: Story. Pendrell Angst/Black Humour. Author's Note: I began this story after Max/TF and put it aside until now. Just trying to make some sense out of the death, and exorcise some of my bitterness toward CC & 1013. This takes place in the same milieu as my "Fantome" story. NB: Needless to say this is NOT about Satanic, Manichean or Waldensian theology, or any other theology for that matter. Creation, authorship, yes. Theology, no. THE DEVIL AND AGENT PENDRELL ******* PRELUDE/PART ONE: THE SORROWS OF MARGHERITA ************* "...Agent Pendrell is dead..." Even as she said it, Dana Scully couldn't really believe it. The events of the last few days had taken their toll, she thought as Mulder patted her awkwardly on the shoulder. They saw death frequently. She had a better acquaintance with its many forms than she would have liked. Sometimes it came in gruesome and strange forms. All too often, it came as a prosaically cruel jest. *Why Pendrell? Why anybody? Why couldn't I have said something more comforting at the end?* A bitter smile twisted Scully's mouth. *Perhaps it's just as well that I never practiced medicine*, she mused, *if I can't think of better words to reassure a dying man...* **********************PART TWO: TEMPTATION *********************** "Breathe, Pendrell." *DAMN!* Pendrell glowered over his workstation as Fox Mulder strolled out of the room, his smirking comment lingering uncomfortably in the air. Once again, Mulder had made him feel like an utter idiot. With Dana Scully in earshot, of course. *Damn, damn, damn.* "Hey man, what's the matter?" Pendrell looked up to see Danny Washington, fellow lab geek, standing in Mulder's place. "Geez, Dan, I'm...sorry. Sorry. Didn't mean to say that out loud. I just, oh...never mind." Pendrell turned back to his work station. "I have better things to do than think about that jerk." "You mean Mulder? Yeah, he's a pain." "You think so too?" Pendrell was surprised at the admission. He wasn't in the habit of sharing his feelings with his co-workers. Or with anyone for that matter. His reasons were less than entirely rational, and he knew it. Sure, Mulder was a smart-aleck. Yes, he got preferential treatment. How he managed to hang on to his job after all of his rumoured screw-ups, nobody knew. But most of all, Mulder worked with the incomparable Dana Scully. Pendrell wasn't proud of it, but there it was. He was jealous. Gossip flew around the bureau about the Mulder-Scully partnership-how could she stand to put up with him? "Mrs. Spooky?" Pendrell didn't even want to think about that one. "Of course I think so," Danny was continuing. He lounged on a stool expansively, waving his hand. "A LOT of people think so. Hell, guy calls me up all the time, asking favours, promising me Redskins tickets...and do I ever get anything back from him? Nope. But you'd better not complain about Mulder. Oh no. At least..." Danny halted, eyeing Pendrell carefully. He leaned forward intently, his lanky frame suddenly tensed, his earlier nonchalance vanished. "...at least, not through OFFICIAL channels." "What's that supposed to mean?" Pendrell knew that there were "FBIs within the FBI." Or so "everybody" said. But "everybody" usually didn't have much in the way of solid information. Pendrell normally dismissed the tales of young agents being observed in the bathrooms and monitored on vacation as overreaction and paranoia. "Look, all I'm saying is that if you have a problem with the way Mulder is babied, there are people who are listening." Danny stood up abruptly. "I got tired of him a long time ago." Pendrell laughed nervously. "Hey Dan, you sound a little intense there, you know. Are you serious?" He lowered his voice. "You aren't talking about anything illegal, are you?" Danny chuckled. "Geez, Pendrell, it's the FBI. We ARE the law, remember, Lab Boy? Anyway, it's just a kind of...internal review board. They keep tabs on people like Mulder, people who seem to get away with a little TOO much. Look, if you're interested, here." Danny scribbled something on Pendrell's notepad. "Take this number. Give them a call." "I don't know, Danny...who are these people, anyway?" "Just call them. It's your duty, Pendrell. Agent Mulder is not only a pain in the ass, he's a danger to the bureau, and to his partner. To all of us." ***************PART THREE: NEGOTIATION************************* A danger to us all, he thought, many days later, as he took out the number for the millionth time. A danger to Dana. *That* thought always made his stomach give a funny little turn. He'd heard of the risks they took, of Mulder's penchant for running off without backup. He'd heard, though the grapevine, that Dana had lost her sister, maybe thanks to her involvement in Mulder's crazy quest. And somebody had said something about her dog, though he didn't quite know the details on *that* one. Who would be next? With sudden fierceness, Pendrell stabbed the numbers on the phone. "Yes?" "Uh...I was told to call you..." Why was his mouth so dry? Danny had said this was all perfectly legitimate. "Danny told me to call." "A moment please." A moment? For what? Pendrell almost hung up. This was crazy. Hang up the phone, bud. Go get a beer, watch TV, just hang it up. A slightly hysterical giggle escaped his lips. *Sure, I can call up some mysterious board of inquiry to rat on Mulder, but I can't get up the goshdarned courage to call up Dana Scully and ask for a date...* "Agent Pendrell?" That was funny. He hadn't given them his name. "Yes?" "You will be met tomorrow at the Bureau. Room 272. 2.20 p.m. The interview will take precisely ten minutes. You will receive your instructions then. Do not call this number again." *I did it*, he thought, staring dazedly at the phone as it hummed the hang-up signal. *************PART FOUR: AFFIDATION ******************************* *I can't believe I'm doing this*, Pendrell thought for the thousandth time. Here he was. Room 272. It was 2.19. He put his hand on the doorknob. *Breathe, Pendrell.* "Please shut the door Agent Pendrell. Thank you." The man sitting across the shiny table seemed mild enough. *What were you expecting, stormtroopers?* Pendrell berated himself. "Uh..hi. I'm..." "Agent Pendrell. Please. Sit down." Pendrell did so, noticing for the first time the other man in the room. The afternoon light streaming in the window behind the seated man was blinding in Pendrell's eyes, but for the first time he saw the tall, dark-suited older man standing next to the wall...smoking. Smoking? *Nobody* smoked in this section of the Bureau. It was the LAW. Somehow, that made Pendrell's hands sweat even more. "Now, Mr. Pendrell," the seated man was saying in a pleasant baritone. "We thank you for your interest, and assure you that your participation in this project will be completely voluntary. Think of yourself as contributing to the greater good of everyone." "O-ok." Pendrell blinked and tried to focus on the man sitting across from him. Darn, he wished that smoking guy would just say something. "We just want you to let us know anything something ... unusual .. occurs with the agent in question." "You mean Mulder, right?" Pendrell squinted at the seated man. "...right. It's simple really. Here's the number..." he slid a small card across the table. "Call it when things seem...not right. Not following procedure." "That's it?" Pendrell picked up the card and looked at it. A business card, but lacking a name, or an address. Only a number. "That's it. Oh, we might ask you to occasionally...drop something off. Nothing major. It's your information which will make the biggest difference." "Oh. Well. A long as I don't have to fetch the coffee...heh, heh, you know...." He trailed off. "Fetch the coffee." The man across the table smiled briefly. *Oh god, am I ever a doof. * "No, Agent Pendrell. That will be all." The man remained seated. Pendrell lurched to his feet, uncomfortably aware that his hands were sweating again. He turned towards the door. "Agent Pendrell." It was the smoker. His voice was surprisingly warm. "Yes?" Pendrell squinted in the general direction of the voice; he really wished he could see the man's face. "Why are you doing this?" Good question. "Well, you know, it's like you said..." he waved a hand in the direction of the seated man, "...just helping the agency, wanting to do my part." The seated man was staring at him. He continued, awkwardly. "I mean, Mulder, he's a danger, right? A danger to us all...to his partner Agent Scully, and...everybody." He hadn't meant to say that. The smoking man crossed to another corner. Pendrell could see that he was smiling. *I must have said the right thing,* he thought. "Of course. Rest assured, you'll be helping *Agent Scully* and...everybody. Don't think you don't matter, Agent Pendrell. Everyone must play by the rules, even Mulder. Your patience will be vindicated." The man stubbed out his cigarette. He smiled again. "The race dies not always go to the strong, Agent Pendrell." "Thanks..." He left with more haste than grace, and he knew it. The race does not always go to the strong...what was that about? It was reassuring to turn the corner into his lab, even if his new assistant was playing her show tunes on the radio again. "Hey, Pendrell!" she chirped. "Back so soon? Where's MY coffee, boss?" He smiled at her, feeling the tension of the meeting ebb a bit. It was all normal. Just procedure. Just another FBI internal board. "Sorry about the coffee, Lee." He shrugged into his lab coat. "What do we have on for entertainment today?" he asked, trying to sound hearty and knowing damn well he failed miserably. "My Favourite. Little Shop of Horrors." But he wasn't really listening to her as he bent over his charts, relieved to escape the strange afternoon encounter and return to a world of demonstrable results and definite conclusions. He was surprised to find himself humming along...catchy tune... *They say the meek shall inherit, You know the Book doesn't lie* *They say the meek are gonna get what's coming to them by-and-by* **************PART FIVE: REALIZATION**************************** It wasn't so hard, this becoming a spy. Pendrell didn't kid himself. He doubted he was coming up with anything of importance... but that's not what the voice on the other end always said. "Thank you, Pendrell." "Good work, Pendrell." "Sounds important, Pendrell." Funny, how they knew his name, and he never knew theirs...oh well. What mattered was that he was finally hearing those words from somebody. And, he was finding that the meek held surprising power, if only they wanted to use it. Pendrell had never paid attention to FBI gossip much before. Now he was amazed at how much he could find out, just by being, well, unnoticeable. Unobtrusive. Mousy. It wasn't just that Fox Mulder had a habit of taking unauthorised jaunts with serial killers (a fact he duly reported to his superiors.) It was that AD Skinner's wife had left him for an....interesting...reason. It was that Holly the librarian led a secret life wearing items selected from her Frederick's of Hollywood Catalogue. Even the security guard at the front had a few things to hide in his closet (mostly rolling paper, roach clips, and a few other items very unbefitting the FBI.) It was... well, Pendrell couldn't believe all the things that were going on around him. He'd never known being a shy, quiet guy could be so interesting. Sometimes he felt a pang or two of guilt. A lot of what he was learning didn't have anything to do with His Mission. That's how he thought of it. His Mission whch helped keep Dana safe. Then again, sometimes he wondered how much His Mission was really helping Dana. She still didn't seem aware of his existence.... which was how he was able to overhear her description of Mulder's latest goof-up on a hate-crimes case. Desecrating a Jewish cemetery? Duly Reported. All in all, he found his new life, well, exciting. He felt confident. Interesting. Important. Lee liked to kid him that he was getting bossy in the lab. Well...so what? He WAS the boss. It was only a matter of time until Lee wasn't the only one noticing him. No more doofing around. No sirree. No sirree BOB. Then Danny disappeared. He didn't come into work one day. Nobody knew where he was. Pendrell mustered up the courage to openly enquire of their supervisors and was politely told that if anyone knew anything, it was no business of his. It wasn't that they had been particularly close. Save for the sharing of information about The Mission, they had seldom spoken. *Maybe he just...snapped,* thought Pendrell. The FBI could be pretty harrowing work. Not that he or Danny saw much of that sort of thing, but you never knew. Pendrell knew his rationalizations were weak, but he clung to them anyway. *We can't all be tough,* he thought as he headed towards his departmental maibox. He sorted through the workorders and memos, letting himself be caught up in something far removed from work. The envelope was crammed in the back of his box. It was so obviously unofficial: dirty, folded over, and too large for the small card that he found inside. It was a white card, a business card, but with no name, no address. Just a phone number. He turned it over. "Get out, Pendrell." He knew the writing from a million lab reports, but had never seen it so scrawled. The papers from his mailbox cascaded from his hands like so many freed animals collecting at his feet as he stared, dumbfounded, at the note in Danny's writing... ******************PART SIX: DEVASTATION*************************** The bar was an FBI watering hole, but Pendrell didn't usually frequent it. Oh, he tagged along for occasional lab celebration, but he never really at home in the casually loud atmosphere. This evening, however, he welcomed the noise and the bustle, isolating him as it did in his dark corner. He wanted--needed-- to be alone. He couldn't get the note out of his head. *This is bad* he kept thinking. *This is very, very bad. I think this may be the worst thing ever to happen in my life.* He was turning his own card over and over in his hands, as part of the roar of the place broke through his isolation: "Hap-py Birth-day to you, Hap-py Birthday..." Someone was carrying a fiery dessert over to a red-headed woman..over to DANA... He'd been wrong. *This* was worse. It was Dana's birthday, and she was here, with HIM. With Mulder. Of course. All this spying, and what had it gotten him? A big fat nothing. He knew he had been fooling himself all along. He watched them laughing and joking. Nothing had changed. Dana still only had eyes for that smart ass partner of hers. And Mulder, depite all his screw-ups, was still Spooky the Wunderkind, untouchable at the Bureau. *Screw it,* he thought with unaccustomed fierceness. *Screw it all. Danny was right...wherever he is. This just isn't worth it.* He saw Mulder lean over and give Dana the package. It was a box. A jewelry box. Pendrell felt his stomach do that jealous flutter again. *Oh no, not a---!* It was a keychain. Scully looked puzzled. Mulder looked smug. Pendrell was just relieved, and angry. What a stupid gift! Mulder probably hadn't even given it a thought, just grabbed something at a D.C. museum gift shop. But at least it wasn't...well...it wasn't what he had feared. Pendrell stood up. Time to go, and maybe to wish Dana a happy birthday. Before he could reach the table, Mulder and Scully were intercepted by a tall frightened woman, babbling about somebody named Max, and a plane. Pendrell stood silent in the shadows, watching as Mulder and Scully left with the woman. Just like that, off again, no requisitions, no forms, no paperwork like every other schmuck in the Bureau had to file. He hadn't even gotten to wish Dana Happy Birthday, thanks to Mulder's damnfool chasing after wild leads. Anger overcame his regret. *This is one to report. One more. Just one last report. Then I'll quit.* Pendrell headed for the bar's phone. end section one--please see section two which follows THE DEVIL AND AGENT PENDRELL (2/2) author: Beagle (feedback to: astrea@sprint.ca) Rating: PG Summary: The Doof is Out There. Perhaps neither the life nor the death of Agent Pendrell were quite what they seemed. Spoilers: Max/Tempest Fugit Disclaimer:Standard fanfic disclaimers apply. Keywords: Story. Pendrell Angst/Black Humour. Author's Note: I began this story after Max/TF and put it aside until now. Just trying to make some sense out of the death, and exorcise some of my bitterness toward CC & 1013. This takes place in the same milieu as my "Fantome" story. NB: Needless to say this is NOT about Satanic, Manichean or Waldensian theology, or any other theology for that matter. Creation, authorship, yes. Theology, no. THE DEVIL AND AGENT PENDRELL (section 2--continued) *******************PART SEVEN: RUMINATION************************** Later, at home, Pendrell wondred if he had done the right thing. He hated feeling this way. He didn't like being angry. Or jealous. He just wanted to go to sleep and forget the whole thing. He picked up the box of sleeping pills his mother had sent him. "Take them, Pell dear," she'd told him over the phone. "They're that new melatonin stuff. Put you right to sleep, and no grogginess later." "Ma, that stuff hasn't been tested. And do you have to call me Pell?" It had been a childhood nickname...what he'd used to say before he could pronounce the family name properly. "I'm sorry dear. But do take the pills. They work. And I know that FBI stuff you do makes it hard to sleep." If only she knew the half of it, Pendrell thought. He shrugged, and popped a pill out of the blister pack. If only she'd stop calling him Pell. It was hard to argue with her, especially after Dad died, and she turned all her love on her only child. Everyone at work called him Pendrell, his Mom called him Pell, he thought as he lay down. Once in a while, it would be nice to have somebody---maybe Dana--call him.... **********PART EIGHT: HALLUCINATION******************************* "Darling!" Pendrell turned toward the door of his apartment. There she stood, radiant with the light behind her. "Yes dear?" He was smoking a cigar and wearing a trenchcoat. He was vaguely aware of never doing these things. "We've been engaged a whole week and I've never been inside your apartment. I think it would be ok, don't you?" She smiled that radiant smile. "But of course, dear. Come in, I'm just looking for..." He couldn't remember what it was he was looking for. She stepped over the threshold, and he was struck again at her beauty. Not every redhead could wear pale pink. In that fluffy dress, and with her hair up, she looked about 17...like she was the Sweetheart of... "Sigma Chi!" Dana said brightly. "Oh, SweetPea, you never told me you were a Sigma Chi!" She was pointing at a very large trophy on his desk. "I was. I won a lot of trophies for the house. In chemistry. And stuff." Even as he said it, it seemed wrong. Sigma Chi? If only he could find his...car keys! That was it! Where were they? "Pumpkin!" Now Dana's voice held a note of shock. He turned to see her holding an ashtray, filled with cigarette butts. "It's ok, I found the car key!" Strangely, it looked more like a skeleton key. "Pumpkin!" Dana's face elongated with horror as she held the ashtray away from her like a poisonous snake. "These are the Devil's!" Morleys. The cigarettes of the smoking man. He tried to answer her but choked. Dana's eyes began to fill with tears. "Oh, Pudding, you've made a deal with the Devil!" He clutched the key to him, as she advanced closer and closer, the tears running down her face, making it shimmer. "You're a witch, a witch, a WITCH!" *I'm not*, he tried to say, but all he could manage was a mouselike squeak. Dana loomed before him like a screen projection, her dress longer now, gleaming like her face...."Are you a GOOD witch? or a BAD witch? Which?" Her face came closer and closer, blotting out the rest of the room, blotting out everything but her voice as she murmured gently..."Clap your hands if you believe...there's no place like home...." Her voice dissolved into a ringing ringing ringing make it stop..... ****************PART NINE: RESOLUTION****************************** He had to quit. If his dream meant anything, Pendrell decided (besides the need for a less jarring alarm clock) it was that he had to find another way. He could go through with it no longer. The sound of the fax broke his reverie. He was working late (again), and usually his division didn't get faxes at this time of day. "Wrong number again, probably," he muttered as he grabbed the first page. Yup. Something for A.D. Skinner. Something from...Mulder and Scully... Pendrell knew he should have replied, telling them they had the wrong number.He certainly shouldn't be reading this stuff. It was clearly not for his eyes...*Oh well. One last time. I'll give them the call, and tell them I quit. Better if I go out with a bang.* (Besides maybe it would be THIS time...THIS time he would do something really right, and Dana would notice, and...) He grabbed the rest of the fax sheets and dropped them with Skinner's secretary on his way home. ********************PART TEN: REPARATION ************************ "It's me." "Mr. Pendrell. So soon." Oh hell. It was HIM. Ever since that dream, Pendrell couldn't help but think of the guy as the devil... "Uh yeah. I heard some more stuff." "Do tell." Woodenly, he spit it all out: the request for protection, the federal marshall, the witness. The Cigarette Guy seemed impressed. "Well done, Mr. Pendrell, Well done indeed." "Uh, thanks." This was worse than getting INTO it, this getting OUT. "There's just one more thing..." "Yes?" "I want to quit." He hadn't meant to put it that way. "I mean, I think, you know, they might know, and, I'm just not very good at this, and..." This was not going well. "Oh, I don't know, Mr. Pendrell. You've been very good indeed." "Thank you." Now what the hell was he supposed to say to that? "But if that's how you feel, we understand, of course." "That's it?" Pendrell couldn't believe it. The guy soudned so nice. He was sorry about the devil-thoughts. "Why Mr. Pendrell, what do you want us to do, take away your washroom key?" For a minute he didn't get it. "Oh...ha. Yeah." "There is one thing. If you don't mind. I'm just looking at a report here, and there's a small task you could do. Shutting the door on your way out, as it were." "Sure, sure, anything." *Anything if you'll let me out of this guilt-fest.* "Agent Scully will be taking her witness to meet the Marshall...I want you to make sure it happens at the appointed time and place. Just show up at that quaint little pub where she held her birthday celebration. If Agent Scully doesn't show up, or if she and her witness leave without meeting the marshall, just give us a call." "OK. I guess I can do that." He got to spy on Scully for credit? "That's it. And thank you, Agent Pendrell. We certainly won't forget you." Funny, he sort of hoped they would.... ****************PART ELEVEN: PREPARATION ************************* As ever, the bar was crowded and noisy, but instead of heading for the dark booth where he usually sat, Pendrell headed for a front-and-center barstool. *Might as well sit where I can see.* "What can I get you?" The pony-tailed bartender smiled at him. "Just a Coke, thanks." No. A drink...a drink with Coke. "Er, make that a RUM and Coke." "Dark and Dirty?" "Excuse me?" What was this guy accusing him of? What did he know? The bartender held up a bottle. "Do you want dark rum in that? Or light?" "Oh...uh, light." Yeah, he'd better drink light...no sense in getting plastered. Pendrell didn't usually drink anything besides beer or wine. *Light beer, light rum, same thing.* He really did feel better after taking a swig or two. "Dutch courage." That's what they called it. He wondered why, as he ordered another. Now. What had the man said to him? Oh yeah, just keep and eye on Scully. He swiveled around and surveyed the bar. No sign. Hmmm. Keeping and eye on--why, he could do that better if he actually sat next to her, couldn't he. Yes. That was it. He would sit with her and...whoever. The witness guy. "Another rum and Coke, sir?" "Sure, why not. But make it a light." Light rum. What a great idea! **************PART TWELVE: TRANSITION****************************** OK. What would he say to Scully? Pendrell figured that "Hi, I'm here to spy on you," probably would not induce her to let him sit with them. Her birthday? It was over, but then he had never had a chance to say Happy Birthday. That would do. And a present. Why didn't he have a present? Pendrell frowned. Stupid. Should have gotten her a present...well, he could think of something. Something better than a keychain. Maybe tomorrow he'd go get her...something. Something beautiful and rare. Something not at all like a keychain. Oh, hell, what did it matter? He sighed heavily. No matter what he did, Dana was blind to Mulder's faults. Did she really like him that much? Probably, Pendrell answered himself. Pendrell noticed that his drink was empty --again-- and signalled for another. Another of those rums. "*Light*," he reminded the bartender. Wow, the service was good here. Or was it him? *Hmm.* Pendrell thought, *I do feel funny. Maybe this is what it feels like not be so friggin' scared all the time.* He nodded to himself. *FUCKING scared.* Well, if there was one thing he'd learned from his spying it was that he wasn't just a doof. He was somebody. Maybe somebody that Dana-- *Dana?* *Oh shit. Quick, line, line, line...* "Hey, Birthday Girl!!" Pendrell smiled at Scully, who stood beside him at the bar, a little embarassed? Perhaps just taken aback. *Well, that went pretty well....now just offer to buy her a drink...with someone? what's she saying?* Pendrell eyed the table Scully indicated. Ouch. She was *With* someone, military type, big, beefy...Her tastes had changed. For a moment he considered just climbing back on his barstool and staying there, but... *waitaminnnit. Witness. Witness Guy. She's with Witness Guy!* "Er, let me buy you *both* a drink!" *Thasstheticket!* She was smiling. SMILING! As she turned away Pendrell realized he was trembling. *I did it. I did it right. I'm going to sit with her, and with Witness Guy, and this is going to go my way. I am finally in control.* He thought his giddiness must be apparent to the entire bar as he crossed the floor carefully with the beers. He did feel a little pecuiliar. Could it all be his new attitude? Or. How light *is* light rum? Oh well, what the hell. A noise at the door caught his attention and he recognized the face of the Smoking Man's companion, even before he registered the gun pointed at Scully. Time seemed to slow as the thought crawled across his mind that the man was going to do something bad, VERY bad with the gun. He didn't really know if he was trying to help or to get away, as he stepped between Scully's table and the gunman. He still didn't know, even as the slugs ripped through his body. He had never realized how much force there was in a gunshot. Somewhere, his scientist's mind was calculating the force involved as he lay on the floor, a terrible burning feeling filling up his chest. More loud shots. He tried to breathe, but something was in his throat. And...an angel? Mom? Dana? "Breathe, Pendrell." *One out of three. Not bad.* he mused, even as the faraway voice told him they hadn't celebrated her birthday yet. *Oh, Dana...you don't have to call me "Pendrell."* he tried to say. *Call me...call me...* **************PART THIRTEEN: PERDITION**************************** "Ah, Agent Pendrell." Oh, shit. He was in hell. "You're awake." Awake? Did they have sleep in hell? Maybe they had waking up, but not sleeping. It would figure. His eyes began to focus in the darkness around him. Not hell. A hospital bed. In a very dark room...it wasn't a hospital. The room gaped away darkly from the triangle of lights around his bed, and he knew it was larger than a hospital room. *And hospitals,* Pendrell thought foggily, *generally don't allow smoking.* The cigarette-smoking man smiled down at him. "I thought you were going to leave us." Pendrell breathed painfully and whispered, "...I...tried..." "Oh, that." The man shook his head and let his cigarette stub fall to the ground. "Now, I think you were just getting a bit hasty on us. No, I meant the gunshot wounds. You stepped into the line of fire a little too quickly, my friend. We almost didn't need to fake your death." The flame flickered between his cupped hands as a fresh cigarette replaced its fallen comrade. "...fake?..." God, it was hard to speak. "Well, how else could you continue your fine work?" On any other face, the smile would have been benevolent. "Truly outstanding. You have a real gift for listening at doors, for gathering tidbits, for--" "...spying..." "I prefer the term 'information co-ordination' myself, but, if you like. No-one suspects you, Pendrell. That's what makes it all so perfect. You know they call you the Lab Mouse behind your back?" Yes. He knew. He knew all about that, and all the other names the Bureau's members liked to bestow on each other. He knew, because he had spent the last year as a voyeur, and eavesdropper, and a goddamned-- "Rat would be more appropriate, don't you think?" The hand not holding the cigarette patted Pendrell softly on the shoulder. "Oh, a very fine job indeed. You've become a new man, Pendrell. I don't know why you would want to leave us...." Pendrell shuddered. This was worse than hell. How had he gotten here, any way? Only one person could get him out. He had sold his soul to be near her. She had to know, somehow, to care that he was alive. "...Scully...?" "I'm afraid she, like everyone else, like your mother, will be told of your unfortunate demise. Really a pity, Agent Pendrell. If you hadn't decided to try to leave us, well, who knows? Agent Scully might have been most impressed with you." She *had* to know. How could she believe he was dead? She'd seen everything in the bar. Maybe she could stop this. He tried to focus on the picture of her face in his mind, the last thing he'd seen, her face, like an angel's, the bar light shining down from behind her... "...Dana..." "Yes, it is a pity...I'm sure she wouldn't want you dead. Not that she ever really knew you were alive, of course." The man's mouth twisted slightly around his cigarete. Pendrell realized that the other man knew exactly how cruel that remark had been. "But then, it doesn't really matter what she wants. Or what you want, Agent Pendrell. This entire situation has really arisen out of a small misunderstanding." The cigarette smoke lingering around the man's head wavered as he exahled heavily. "I'm a reasonable man, Agent Pendrell." "....never....work....for...you..." It came out in horrible wheezing squeak, but he'd said it. Finally. He was free... The smoking man smiled again, more broadly this time. "Ah, it's still not quite clear, is it?" He threw down his second cigarette, and with an economical motion grabbed the tubes in Pendrell's arm. "I *own* you, Pendrell. I always have. I made you what you are. I'm as proud as can be of my creation, but it's mine. Whether you live or die is not up to you. It's not up to your beloved Dana Scully, even if she cared. It's not up to your friends. It's up to *me.* The words are *mine*, the script is *mine*, and you can no more change your lines than can King Lear. Or the Fool." He squeezed the plastic tubes gently, and ran his hand up towards the IV drip. "You're not the actor, Pendrell. You're just the character." *Oh, do it,* Pendrell thought. Kill me. But the man merely smiled again, dropped the tubes, and leaned forward, forward, until his lips nearly touched Pendrell's ear as he hissed-- "You'd like that. You'd want me to kill you. But *I* don't want to. And *I* am your Creator, Pendrell. *I* made you who you are. And you don't get taken away from that until *I* say so." The man straightened and moved to the foot of the bed. He flipped through the medical chart hanging there. "Now, once you're back on your feet we'll discuss your next assignment. I think you'll find that being dead---" He winked at Pendrell. "---provides a truly excellent base for your...information co-ordination. You're going to like working for us, Pendrell. I'm sure of it." He dropped the chart and turned away. From his retreating back, swallowed up by the darkness that surrounded the haven of lights around Pendrell's bed, there came--- "Until next time. *Creation*." And lying there in the bed beneath the cold and faintly humming lights, as the footsteps of the cigarette smoking man faded from earshot, Pendrell suddenly understood why hell was so truly, truly terrifying. It wasn't a matter of fire and brimstone, of eternal cold, of pitchforks and torture and ravening demons. It wasn't even, he pondered, the prospect of eternal separation from the Divine. He could remember his Methodist mother endeavouring to explain to him that Hell was, that it was the absence of God, separation from Him, which was supposed to be the greatest torture a soul could endure. He was quite certain he would never see his mother again, but if he did, then he could at least correct her on that point. Hell wasn't separation from the Creator. In fact, it was being sealed in union with Him, an unbreakable, eternal bond. It was looking into His face and seeking escape from torment and the Devil. It was watching Him smile with benevolent cruelty, and slowly coming to realize the gut-wrenching truth. Sometimes, the Devil and the Creator are one and the same. END